


Je M'Excuse (I Promise)

by Ocean_Born_Mary



Series: Forever (I Promise) [5]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Injury, M/M, Poor Athos, Sickfic, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-04
Updated: 2014-10-04
Packaged: 2018-02-19 21:24:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2403350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ocean_Born_Mary/pseuds/Ocean_Born_Mary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Probably should have called it quits after he ended up in the pond.  Of course, then he would have just died of the cold and the snow swirling around him.  On an interesting note, he was going to find out if leather cracked when frozen.  If he didn’t fall to his death before then. </p>
<p>This was just not his day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Je M'Excuse (I Promise)

**Author's Note:**

> Part of the Forever (I Promise) series. You don't have to read the others to understand it. :)
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own them. Sorry. And I made up the topography for my own purposes. I don't apologize for that. :)
> 
> Enjoy!

Porthos…Porthos is not going to forgive him for this one.           

It was most certainly not his fault. He had not been indulging his death wish.  Athos just _happened_ to be dangling very high, above a rushing river, with a tenuous hold on an icy cliff face.

Probably should have called it quits after he ended up in the pond.  Of course, then he would have just died of the cold and the snow swirling around him.

On an interesting note, he was going to find out if leather cracked when frozen.  If he didn’t fall to his death before then. 

This was just not his day.

The plus side, none of them were here to witness his tragic failure.  Because d’Artangan was sure to have some witty comment that would have Aramis rolling on the ground. Which would, of course, be followed by Porthos drawing and quartering him.

Yes, much safer to fall to his death. In fact, the sound of the river below was rather welcoming.  And his left arm ached from holding himself up.  His right dangled useless at his side.

Good news, the wound in his side had stopped bleeding.  Probably because it froze, but… 

 He was three fucking miles outside of Paris.

Athos could fall into the Seine, get washed under the bridge by the blacksmith’s shop just like he’d intended so long ago.

Except now he had something to live for.

Damn it. 

 

 

Treville had drawn Athos aside three days prior.

He needed someone to receive an expected missive from a spy that the Cardinal had planted in the Spanish court. Said spy had sent his most trusted man to carry the message into France, Treville was sending his most trusted man to intercept it. 

“I’d like to bring my men.”

“No.  He’s only expecting you.  Any more and he’ll be frightened off.  The letter holds information that we need to negotiate for the expansion of our boundary.”

Athos wants to argue the point. Thinks better of it. Since his most pressing argument is _I don’t want to sleep by myself_ , he’s pretty sure he’ll lose the battle. 

“Besides, the likelihood of you finding any bandits this time of year is slim—the pass is certain to have snow within the week.”

Later, he’d realize that the captain had cursed him. The next time Treville commented on the ‘likelihood’ of something, Athos would prepare for the exact opposite.

Instead, he just accepted his orders, wandered home to pack. 

“You can’t go by yourself,” Aramis protests.

 “I can, and I will,” Athos counters rather unintelligently. 

 “Porthos, tell Athos he’s being an idiot.”

 Athos holds up his hand, causing both men to bite their tongues. 

At least take d’Artangan,” Aramis says softly.

“Believe me when I say that I would like nothing more than for all of you to come, but Captain Treville has ordered that I do this alone.  Before you accuse me of not looking out for my own welfare,” Athos glares at Aramis and his mouth snaps shut, “I told him that I would prefer that you accompany me. He said no.” 

“I’ll go let him know what I think about that,” Aramis starts for the door, but Athos stops him with a hand on his wrist, draws him in for a gentle kiss.

“You’ll do no such thing,” he mumbles into Aramis’ collarbone.

“Bastard,” Aramis complains as Athos sucks a bruise on his throat. Later, he’ll wish he let Aramis march into Treville’s office.  For now he’s happy to mark Aramis with teeth and tongue as Porthos does the same to the base of his own neck. 

“I have go.  Don’t let d’Artangan get into trouble.” 

“D’Artangan does not get into trouble,” Aramis protests.

“He’s trouble incarnate,” Porthos supplies and Athos leaves laughing.

But for all the trouble d’Artangan tends to cause, Athos attracts double.

His journey to meet the envoy is surprisingly uneventful. There is a sharp chill in the air, and Athos can almost taste snow on his tongue.  Despite that, the sky stays clear, leaves crunching under his steed’s hooves. When he arrives at the agreed upon inn late that evening, it has turned downright bitter, and Athos can see ice beginning to form on the pond by the inn. 

He has a memory of Thomas attempting to strap kitchen blades to his boots to glide across a frozen expanse and nearly cutting his thumbs off in the process. Athos had convinced that blacksmith to fashion a pair of blades that fit on the bottom of his own boots to tease Thomas with, ended up falling so hard on his ass that he couldn’t sit for weeks.  They’d had another set of the blades made (as the blacksmith murmured about _fanciful dreams, walking on ice_ ), and wobbled their way out together—before long they’d been skating forwards and backwards, Thomas even attempting to leap through the air.  Athos makes plans to have the blacksmith down the street make four pairs—he thinks that Aramis will love gliding on the ice and that the cost will be worth the sight of Porthos and d’Artangan falling all over the place.

His man has not arrived, so Athos rents a room for the evening and makes his way back down to the main dining room.  He has no desire to eat the house gruel, counts out the extra coin for fresh meat and warm ale, and notices a band of ruffians eyeing him from the corner.

Lovely. 

Athos isn’t in the frame of mind to deal with them tonight, and needs to remain on good terms with the innkeeper until the missive arrives, so he takes his food up to his room and locks the door. Athos hasn’t realized how tired he’s been—did not recognize the fact that he had been running himself ragged for the past few weeks.  He sees it now as he sits down in front of the fire that he built, knows that the aching in his limbs is not from a day spent on a horse but from a cold that has snuck up on him unawares.

The only good thing is, Aramis isn’t here to catch him sniffling.  Aramis would tell him to get out of the chair ( _too tired to move_ ), and into bed ( _so cold all alone_ ), and to sleep ( _where flames lick at his heels, chased by a rushing river and a noose tightening around his neck)—_ instead of him nodding off with his chin on his chest and a dying fire.

He wakes to glowing embers and a hint of jasmine on his tongue.  Wishes for the taste of cinnamon and sweat, or sunshine and sandalwood, or wine to drown it out. Takes a swig of his cold ale instead, swallows hard when it seems to get stuck in his throat. If all goes well, the missive will arrive early morning and he can be back in Paris this evening. Tomorrow at the latest.

Athos’ eyes are watery, his throat itchy, and whatever sleep he managed to get last night seems to have done him no good. He skips breakfast and instead heads out to explore the small village. 

It appears that this town is a farming town—not close enough to a lord’s manor to warrant more than one inn, but the blacksmith seems to be well employed—likely fixing plows and various other equipment.

The pond has frozen solid overnight, a few more days of this cold weather and it would be thick enough to walk on. Frost decorates the sparse patches of grass in the dirt, covers the windowpanes of the few establishments on the street.  Athos has the juvenile desire to scroll his name on the glass, puts it down to his headache, and continues walking. 

He wanders past the town’s borders, through a frost bitten field, and by the stream that feeds the pond.

Here, he could be anywhere in France.

He could be home. 

But home isn’t a field, or a stream, or a sprawling estate. Not anymore.

 Home has become something different.

 Home is the deep sound of Porthos’ laugh.

 The crinkle at the corner of Aramis’ eyes when he smiles. 

 Athos shudders at his melancholy thoughts as much as the cold, thinks that he’ll need to find a thicker scarf before winter truly sets in, and he’ll have to purchase one for d’Artangan as well. The boy was certain not to have one. Of course, Aramis had probably left last year’s scarf in a bedroom somewhere and Porthos…well, he was pretty sure that Porthos had wrapped his scarf around a small child’s neck when he saw her shivering in an alleyway. Athos’ was just threadbare and worn. So.  Four new scarves then.  Perhaps Constance could supply them.  Or maybe he’d surprise her and purchase her one as well.

So Athos heads back to town, most certainly not sneezing, and to the inn.  The barmaid directs him two streets over where the seamstress just so happens to have a fresh supply of winter items.  Athos knows that despite d’Artangan’s commission that money is still tight for the young man, so he adds in a new pair of gloves and a thick cloak as well. When the old widow running the shop quotes him the price, Athos throws in an extra livre and tips his hat before taking his carefully wrapped purchases back to his room. It looks like he will be stuck for at least one more evening—there is no way he could make it back to Paris even if the envoy arrived now—so he pays for another night and asks for a meal to be sent up, even though he’ll do little more than pick at it and pace the length of his room to drown out the pounding in his head.

 The barmaid reappears a little while later, clears away his untouched lunch and replaces it with a warm pot of tea and a chipped cup.

“Thank you,” Athos murmurs hoarsely, the razors in his throat preventing his voice’s escape. 

“I could tell you were comin’ down with somethin’. I’d like to think that if my ‘usband was away from ‘ome and ill that somebody would ‘elp ‘im.” She reaches over and pats his arm before pouring him a cup.  “Can see you’re a good man—m’sure your wife is worrin’ for you.” 

His wife, not so much.

Porthos and Aramis…

“You’re too kind.”

“No more talkin’ for you.  You should get some rest.”

And with that she bustles out and closes the door firmly behind her.  He amuses himself for awhile by blowing the steam from the cup into a myriad of shapes, and contemplates what his father would have said if he knew that Athos was in a relationship with not just one man, but two.

He’d always taken particular pleasure in irritating the man—even now he can see the way the Comte’s lips would have twisted, as if he’d just tasted a lemon, the lecture that was certain to follow about ‘expectations’ and ‘good name’ and ‘duty’.  Marrying Anne had been the one time he’d conceded to his father’s wishes—under the threat of being disowned—and he’d returned from his commission to wed a woman who would ultimately bring the entire house down around him. It had been a poor time to start listening to the man. 

But oh, the way his face would have soured.

Athos fell asleep with a grin on his lips and tea slowly cooling on the table beside him. 

When he wakes up the sun is shining brightly through the wooden slats covering the window and the fire has long gone cold. Athos’ breath is a fine white mist and it hurts to bend his fingers around the flint.  It takes several tries to light the kindling, and Athos kneels in front of that small spark, nursing it to life and willing the warmth into his frozen limbs.  The heat loosens something in his chest, and the dull pain that was squeezing around it lets itself out in a harsh, wet cough.  He’s never going to hear the end of it from Aramis.  The only good thing is, his throat doesn’t seem to hurt nearly as much.

There’s a soft rap on the door and Athos jerks to his feet, stumbling as blood rushes back to legs. 

“Saints alive, it’s freezin’ in ‘ere!”

Athos raises an eyebrow in, what he hopes is, mild indifference and tries to hide the shiver racing up his spine. Apparently he’d slept straight through dinner into the next day.  It certainly did not feel as if he had. 

“Man ‘ere for you.  Says it’s important.” 

“I’ll be right down,” Athos nods. “Thank you.” 

The water bucket has frozen over, so Athos settles for running his fingers through his hair in an attempt to straighten it and stretches to try and work out all of the aches and pains.

It isn’t successful. 

The envoy sticks out like a sore thumb. He’s dressed in hose and some sort of tunic with puffs at the sleeves and around the waist.  There are pastel flowers embroidered along the hemline and ribbons on his pointed shoes.  The ruffians are back in the corner, drinking their morning away and eyeing up the Spaniard. Lovely.   

“Are you Treville’s man?” the envoy hisses suspiciously.  Clearly Athos was to be found lacking.  It may have been the dark circles under his eyes.  His general unkempt appearance.  Or the fact that he looked like he’d rather be anywhere but here.   

Athos slowly looks up and down, turns his head side to side and then shrugs.  “I do appear to be the only Musketeer within the vicinity.” 

The envoy colors, with anger or embarrassment Athos doesn’t know, nor care. 

Athos can feel the ache in his chest turning to a steady squeeze and the headache from the day before has returned with a vengeance.  “Perhaps it would be best to continue this in private.  My rooms are upstairs.”  He wishes more than ever that Aramis was here to sweet-talk this idiot, or that Porthos was here to cower him with his presence.  At the very least he needed d’Artangan, who would, undoubtedly, manage to insult the fool and make it look like a compliment. 

The other man’s wooden shoes are ridiculously loud on the staircase.  “I do not plan to spend the day in this hovel,” he’s calling up the stairs.  “My carriage is waiting out front.” 

Athos bites his tongue.  The moron has informed everyone in the inn of his intentions. He’d best find his sword now.

“You idiot,” he hisses, what little patience he ever had gone as he grasps the envoy by his fancy laces and shoves him ahead into the room.

“Why, I never…” Athos ignores the spluttering, nearly growls as the other man brushes away imaginary dirt from his shirtsleeves, and locks the door.  As an afterthought, he shoves the chair under the handle.  It hasn’t warmed much in his absence, but that is not something to worry about.  Already he can hear the creak of feet on stairs—he’ll be hard pressed to saddle his horse and make it from here without a fight.

“Where is the missive,” Athos snaps, strapping on his cloak and reaching for his hat.  He stuffs the packages he’d purchased in his saddlebag, opens the shutters and drops it out.

The parchment the envoy produces is just as flowery as the rest of him—it appears that the letter has even been scented with perfume.  It really was a blessing that D’Artangan wasn’t here.

“Out,” Athos orders as he stuffs the letter into a pocket, hearing it crinkle.  Good. A little dirt never hurt anything.

“You’ve locked the door,” the envoy drawls as if Athos is the idiot.  Said door rattles as something heavy slams against it.

“The window,” Athos clarifies, shoving the other man towards the opening.

“What, I’m not…” another well placed push and that was one less annoyance. 

“I think you’ve broken something!

“Clearly not enough,” Athos grumbles, tossing himself from the window as the door broke open.  He’s had to jump further then he’d like to avoid landing on the whining man and lands awkwardly, jarring his ankle.  Athos takes too deep of a breath in response and releases it in a contagious torrent of coughing.  He takes the time to spit out the mouthful of mucus he collected, pulls himself to his feet, and takes off for the stables with his saddlebag in hand.

Luck is not on his side.

“Got somefin’ in there I’d like to see.”

The man is easily as tall as Porthos, though not quite as broad.  He is, however, three times as dirty and missing several teeth. 

Athos does not have anything worth showing the man, though he’ll never convince these men of that.  Big and burly is reaching for his gun and Athos drops down low, kicking at his ankles.

It has the desired effect and the weapon drops to the ground, getting lost in the snow that had appeared suddenly overnight. Which explained why he was wet.

Things just got worse from there.

Burly was joined by three of his friends, and while Athos was able to hold them at sword-point for the interim, he was being pushed further and further away from the stables. 

The sound of metal on metal should have drawn a crowd.  Instead, the outskirts of the town were deserted.  Athos parried and stumbled in a snowdrift, already sore ankle buckling under his weight. It left enough room for Burly to come in from the side and tackle him, knife scraping across his ribs in a hot-white flash of pain. 

Roaring in response, Athos shoved the other man off of him, and rolled to his feet, ignoring the sight of red droplets in the white snow.  Only one of the other three had a sword, and Athos was forced to block again, feet slipping as they hit ice.

The pond was barely frozen, but it looked deceptively solid when coated with snow.  Athos willingly gave his ground now, sliding out of reach of fists and swords. Unlike the men attempting to rob him, he was prepared when he heard the first creak.

A second later the ground disappeared out from under them, and the world was very, very cold. 

Athos broke to the surface, coughing into the icy air as razors split his chest.  He could feel his hair freeze instantly as he scrabbled at the edge of the ice to pull himself out before any of the men broke the surface. He distantly hoped that the missive was still dry, or at the very least, not smudged.  Athos collapsed hard on the ice, felt it shift under him, and pushed himself to his knees, stumbling towards the edge of the pond.

He could hear coughing behind him, and a deafening crack. The splash told him that whoever it was had fallen back in and bought him precious seconds.    It’s enough time to snatch the fallen saddlebag and stagger into the stable.  He’s surprised to find his horse already saddled, murmurs a thanks to the lad who had been kind enough to do so, tossing what is left of his purse into the boy’s hands.

Snow is blowing into large drifts, his mount forced to cut a path through the ever deepening powder.  Athos finds that his clothes are freezing, as is his hair, and at some point, his fingers turn to claws that can no longer grasp the reins. It is a good thing that his steed is sure footed.  Darkness falls rapidly—or perhaps he has lost time, the moments have blended together in a haze of white and frigid cold. 

At some point—Athos isn’t sure of time at all anymore, can’t remember if he escaped just this morning or if he’s been riding for days—the white piles up too high, and he’s too heavy for the horse to be able to cut a path without stumbling and falling.  If the horse goes down it’ll never get back up. He’ll never get home.

So Athos slides stiffly from the saddle, shivers briefly as melting snow runs down the inside of his boots—he had not realized how much snow had fallen.  Looking forward, Athos realizes that he can’t see, the world blinded out in a haze of white from the first storm of the season.  Trying to cross the pass now would be madness.

No one had ever accused him of being sane. And the sticky, sluggishly bleeding wound on his side was letting off enough heat to let him know that he didn’t have a choice.  He’d probably die if he tried for the pass.  He’d definitely die if he didn’t. 

The Seine was nearby—it ran by the pass. Athos could barely hear it over the howling wind, but it was to his left.  As long as he kept it to his left…Athos tried to wrap his fingers around the reins, found that they wouldn’t move, and threads his arm through them instead. His knees weren’t in much better shape, refusing to bend and forcing him to shuffle forward.  The path he carved was immediately obliterated by the forceful gusts swirling through the pass, not that it mattered—he couldn’t go back and wouldn’t make it if he tried.  Once, maybe twice, Athos finds himself on his knees and isn’t sure how he got there.  The second…or maybe third…time that he collapses, coughing, Athos recognizes the strange pressure in his chest for what it is.  Aramis is going to kill him. 

It takes longer than it should to get his feet under him.  His side doesn’t seem to hurt anymore, the leather crackles when he clumsily pats it, but his hand comes away clean.  He recalls, suddenly, looking at his strangely blue fingertips, that there are new winter clothes in the saddlebag, that Porthos and Aramis certainly won’t mind if he borrows the gifts that they don’t even know they’re getting…

He can’t get it open.  Either the bag has frozen shut or his hands are useless, or maybe both…

That’s fine.

It’ll be alright.

He can hear the river a little better.  Must be getting closer.

He’ll be back in Paris in no time, with Aramis fussing and angry that he was sick, and Porthos solid and warm…

One shuffle step…

Two shuffle steps…

The wind blows hard and sudden, startling his horse and causing it to rear up. Athos loses what tentative grip he had, flings himself away from the hooves that are coming down, and rolls away. Except the ground is icy and he’s sliding, sliding, sliding…

Athos can feel himself fall, reaches out, lets loose a cry that is swallowed by the sounds of the river and the wind as his right hand scrabbles at a handhold and his entire, frozen arm is wrenched and the resounding snap can’t be anything less than shattered bone.

His left hand managed to grasp something, his toes briefly find a hold to relieve the pressure, and he wills all the heat of his fever towards those fingers, prays that they’ll defrost enough to hang on…

Not that it matters.

It isn’t like he can climb up anyway.

God, they’re going to kill him. 

 

 

The sound of thundering hooves in the empty courtyard draws d’Artangan to the door.  Athos should be back soon, but with the cold wind blowing into the city and the certainty of snow to follow, Porthos had said that the man would probably wait a day or two for the storm to pass before he attempted the journey.  It’s bitterly cold outside, and d’Artangan turns back to get his cloak when he realizes that the dark steed is rider-less.

He hurries down the steps, reaches out a hand to sooth the creature and narrowly avoids being stomped on. 

D’Artangan would recognize that saddlebag anywhere. He’s the one that had Constance stitch the fleur-de-lis in the corner, as an apology for tearing it in the first place.  But it isn’t the saddlebag that’s concerning.

No. It’s the blood smeared across the saddle itself that has him worried. 

 

 

 

There’s at least three feet of snow in the pass, and Porthos’ voice keeps being carried away.  The torches continue to blow out every few minutes, despite the oil they’d been soaked in. That leaves them with one lantern between them, and with this wind, even that won’t last long.

“He couldn’t have been far from Paris!” Aramis shouts, but all Porthos hears is _far_ and _Paris_. “The horse couldn’t have made it otherwise!” 

“What?” D’Artangeon hollers.

They both ignore him.  “Athos!” Porthos tries again.  “Athos!”

 

 

His little finger slipped first.  Athos tried to tighten his hold on the cliff face, in part to shelter himself from the cold wind as it attempted to blow him away, and in part just to see if he could.  He couldn’t.

“A…osss!!!”

He imagined that Porthos was tucked into a nice, warm tavern, cheating several unsuspecting patrons from their paychecks.  Aramis was probably nearby, spinning some gallant tale of chivalry, and D’Artangeon had certainly denied the invitation to go out—definitely brooding over Constance, alone, in his room.  The poor lad was more like him than he knew…

“…tho!”

They most certainly weren’t out.  They would know that the cold wind meant that the snow was blowing in from the higher elevations and stay close to a fireplace tonight…

“ATHOS!”

It almost sounded like Porthos was standing right on top of him.

“Can’t…footprints…too…wind…”

His lips were split, his cheeks raw.  It felt strange to move them.  Like his face was stuck in place.  “P…” The wind swallowed the pitiful attempt.

“Have…go back.” 

Go back?  They were supposed to be by the fireplace.  They shouldn’t go outside.  He had to tell them.

“Por…”

The razors were back in his throat.  It was the first thing that really penetrated the numbness. “Por…”  Athos swallowed, tried to pull himself up a little higher to be heard, and was rewarded by the wind slamming him into the rock face, his useless right arm taking the brunt.

At first there was nothing, his breath stuck in his throat.

And then it escaped in a rush, one loud cry ripping itself from inside before he could stop it.  His left hand tightened reflexively, and he followed the cry with a groan, trying not to vomit as his stomach rolled.

God that had hurt. 

“Down…rope…quick…hang…let go.” 

Aramis is hanging in front of him by some sort of ridiculous rope contraption that is wrapped around his waist and between his legs.  The wind is trying to carry the younger man away, but he doesn’t seem to notice, holding on to the rock with one hand.  “Athos.  Athos.”

Athos realizes that his fever must be higher than he thought.

“Athos.” He imagines hands wrapping around him, an arm around his chest, the other his waist, tugging.  That damn wind trying to pull him down.  “Athos, let go.  I’ve got you.” 

“Promised…Porthos,” he manages to whisper around the razors and that strange feeling.

“Porthos wants you to let go, Athos.  Another tug, more insistent, and he’s tired.  His fingers slip, and maybe he whimpers, but it doesn’t matter, because there’s no one here to see it.  No one but the snow and the wind. 

The last thing Athos does before he lets go is ask for forgiveness for giving up, for breaking the only promise that ever mattered.

He isn’t awake to hear Porthos tell him that there wasn’t anything to forgive. 

 

 

D’Artangan has a blue scarf wrapped around his head like a turban, chunks of snow caught on the fabric.

“The blue one was for me,” Athos croaks, wheezes, then coughs. D’Artangan leaps over, pounds him on the back until the fluid in his lungs breaks free—each thump jolting down his right arm and settling in his side.  “Yours was brown,” he manages sometime after. 

“Constance wanted the brown one.  Porthos wanted the green one and Aramis wanted the red one….which leaves you with the yellow one.”  Of course it did. “Aramis said if you woke up to make you drink this,” d’Artangan reaches for some cup that is certainly full of a vile tonic.  “I’m glad…I didn’t know…it’s been three days.” 

“I’m sure you aren’t as relieved as I am,” Athos murmurs, his eyes already falling closed.  If he feigns sleep, perhaps he’ll get away without…

“Not before you drink this!  Aramis’ll have my hide.” 

He should have let go. 

 

 

Athos was right.

Aramis took to the ice with grace and was already attempting to fling himself through the air with a myriad of twirls and spins.  It had taken several tries, but Athos had finally gotten the blacksmith to agree to make him just what he had wanted.

Porthos wasn’t nearly as pleased with the gift, and after d’Artangan had laughed at him for plowing into a tree, he’d sat on an abandoned stump and refused to come back out onto the ice. 

Athos himself was gliding in easy circles, ignoring the slight twinge in his side and being careful not to fall onto his arm.  It turned out that the shoulder had been dislocated, but since his muscles were frozen at the time, many of them had torn. It was going to be awhile before he could hold his sword steady.

And d’Artangan…

“Woah...” The young man’s arms pin wheeled as he fell again.  Aramis slid by, laughing, until d’Artangan wrapped lighting quick fingers around his ankle and pulled, sending the Musketeer to the ground. 

Porthos burst out laughing then, stood to cross the ice to help them, forgot he wasn’t wearing his boots, and slid face first to meet them.

And Athos was glad that he hadn’t let go.  


End file.
